That Day
by SophieRomanoff
Summary: "We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day… Wherever I find him, whatever back alley or doss house, there will always be a list." - Mycroft This is 'that day'. Two years after Sherlock starts working with Lestrade, him and Mycroft find Sherlock in an alley after an overdose. This is what happens next.


Hey it's ya girl starting another fic. What is wrong with me I'm already way behind on updates but here we are. I recently rewatched season 4 cause I refused to until it was on Netflix. Seeing it a second time sparked a lot of feels and plot ideas (since I wasn't just waiting for what happened next). In particular, I got very emotional over the brotherly scenes and the very small scenes we got of Mystrade together. So I'm pulling them together for this one fic. Set about 2 years after Sherlock starts working on cases.

Tws: graphic drug abuse and overdose and all associated things. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts.

Enjoy!

''I was there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you. This was my fault.'' – Mycroft

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Mycroft had been searching for him for weeks.

He'd lost track of his brother after he'd solved a case.

Lestrade had informed him there were no more and Sherlock, riding the high of the chase and desperate to outrun the come down, had vanished.

Mycroft had sent people out looking, had cameras around the city with their only use to find Sherlock.

Finally they had.

A back alley, on the outskirts of London.

He'd looked rough over the screens but in person, he looked worse.

Mycroft had gone to him with only Lestrade, the only other man he trusted to do right by his baby brother.

They'd gone in, Greg flashing his badge to get the alley cleared out of the other junkies.

Mycroft had been thinking he would have to take Sherlock home, get him clean again, get him back to work.

But Sherlock had other ideas.

When Mycroft got there, Sherlock was completely unconscious, draped unceremoniously on the cold floor.

He didn't respond as his name was called, didn't stir once.

Mycroft knelt, rolling Sherlock from his front and onto his side.

His bare arms were littered with dark bruises, angry red prick marks in the centre of all.

Cuts, ranging in size and depth covered the pale skin of his arms, some healed, some still bleeding. All self inflicted.

Not again.

Had this overdose been an accident?

"Oh, Sherlock-" Mycroft shook his head, one hand tapping his brothers cheek.

"Sherlock-"

He felt panic begin to stir as he took in the gravity of the situation.

It was impossible to miss the palor of his skin, the touch of blue at his lips and the red specks around his chin.

Lestrade took one look at Sherlock and pressed the dispatch button on his phone.

"I'm detective inspector Lestrade. I need an ambulance at my address about ten minutes ago. OD." He knelt beside Mycroft.

He reached out, pressing his fingers against the younger Holmes' neck.

Weak and fast. Way too fast.

"We need to know what he's taken."

Mycroft swallowed and nodded, searching through his pockets to try and find any remaining drugs.

Clean.

"Dammit, Sherlock." Mycroft growled.

He cupped Sherlock's face, tapping not so gently. "Sherlock? Can you hear me? I need to know what you've taken."

Sherlock grunted once, eyelids fluttering and Mycroft thought he was waking up.

He was wrong. So wrong.

His brother started to jerk under his touch, shuddering so violently Mycroft thought he might break something.

Greg shoved his jacket under his head. "Don't hold on to him. It could hurt him more."

It was pure torture to watch his brother seize in front of him, red foam dripping from his lips as his teeth tore into the flesh of his mouth.

And he couldn't do anything.

As Sherlock shuddered still, it became apparent quickly that there was another problem to deal with.

A deep grating rattle sounded from Sherlock's chest and Greg quickly moved.

"On his side. Now."

Mycroft managed to get his hands down to his waist, pulling his brother over onto his side.

Greg unceremoniously pulled Sherlock's mouth open and jammed his fingers inside.

He scooped out foam mixed with blood and more.

Mycroft began to think for the first time that he was losing his brother.

"He's struggling to breathe which means the drugs have made their way to his lungs." Greg said, voice calm.

"We need to make sure his airways are clear and keep him breathing until the ambulance gets here. The Narcan should stop the effects."

He didn't mention that they didnt know if what he'd taken would react to the drug.

But Mycroft knew.

Another gurgle from Sherlock's throat, wetter this time.

Greg cursed and balled his hand into a fist, firmly rubbing up and down his sternum.

When the choking noises continued, Greg hit where his fist had been rubbing, earning a choke and splutter from Sherlock.

"That's it." Greg murmured.

"Myc, I need you to scoop out his mouth again. Do you remember what I did?"

Mycroft wasn't sure he'd ever felt so useless.

He nodded and reached forward, following what Greg had done.

"Keep doing that every couple of seconds, it's going to help his breathing."

Mycroft felt better with something to do.

Greg hit his chest again and when it failed to work this time, he rolled him over more and slapped the middle of his back.

More foam came out his mouth as Mycroft methodically scooped the stuff out.

But the rattling didn't seem to stop.

Greg cursed and inhaled slowly. "Mycroft, I need you to not panic. But I'm pretty sure I know what's going to happen next. Stay calm, call the ambulance again. Tell them to hurry."

Mycroft reached for the phone, holding it to his ear. "What is going to-"

He had his answer before he'd even finished the question.

With a slow inhaled gurgle, Sherlock stilled.

No rattling, no gasps, nothing.

Greg pushed Sherlock onto his back and tilted his head back, pinching his nose as he leaned down.

He put his lips over Sherlock's and exhaled, moving his head quickly to watch.

His chest rose and fell so Greg did it again. At least his airway was clear now.

Drug overdoses often ended in the patient being unable to support their breathing on their own.

Greg thanked whoever was listening for his first aid classes at the police academy.

"Myc, I need you to find the pulse point. Tell me how it feels." He continued to breath for Sherlock.

Mycroft reached for his brother, pressing his fingers to the base of Sherlock's neck.

"Weak. Barely there. Wait...no, I can't-"

"Okay. You know CPR right? I need you to do that now. Fast and hard, don't worry about hurting him."

Mycroft nodded and moved closer, placing his joined hands on Sherlock's chest.

"With me. One, two, three. Fast. Say it with me."

"One, two, three.." Mycroft pressed down with his weight, getting into a rhythm as he counted out loud.

"Good, just like that. Pause after fifteen."

When fifteen came, Greg did three more rescue breaths.

"Again."

They cycled like that for a while.

"Switch." Greg moved quickly and swapped places with Mycroft, pumping down with his hands.

There was a snap beneath his fingers but he couldn't be deterred.

"Breathing." He told Mycroft, pressing his fingers to the pulse point.

Weak, but there.

"You're doing great. Tilt his head back more. There."

He could hear sirens and he stood and rushed out in it the street as the ambulance came screeching to a stop.

"Twenty year old male, overdosed. Not sure on what. He was unconscious when we got here, seized and had trouble breathing. He stopped breathing on his own. We've done nine sets of CPR and breathing. His pulse is better but fading."

Greg showed them to him and as the paramedics started to work, Greg reached for Mycroft. "Myc, let them work. They can do it."

The elder Holmes shook his head and continued to breathe for his brother, shaking as he got dizzy.

"Myc." Greg grabbed his shoulders and physically pulled him away.

The man struggled briefly, but the dizziness hit him and he slumped against Greg.

"Catch your breath, in and out. Nice and slow." Greg rubbed up and down his back, eyes on Sherlock and the medics.

"He's crashing, get the defib-"

Mycroft whimpered, actually whimpered as he dragged his gaze up to watch.

"Deep breaths. They know what they're doing."

Mycroft clung to his hand, shuddering from more than lack of oxygen.

"In and out." Greg murmured, gently rubbing his sternum to remind him.

"We have a pulse, give him the Narcan and let's get him loaded up."

Mycroft wished he could close his eyes.

Wish he didn't have to watch.

Wish he'd been a better brother.

"Are you two coming?"

"We'll follow behind." Greg lifted Mycroft up and gently pushed him in the direction of the cop car.

Greg started the car and as the ambulance took off, blue lights and sirens screeching, he followed behind.

"He's gonna be okay. He always is." Greg said quietly, ducking in and out of traffic.

And he did.

He was.

But from that day, Mycroft made sure Sherlock wrote a list.

And Mycroft had all the drugs on hand, in the bottom of his case, to counteract whatever his brother had taken.

Lestrade carried them too.

They wouldn't ever stop hoping he would be clean fully, but they would also never stop carrying those drugs.

And Sherlock would never stop writing those lists.


End file.
